


Into The Dawn

by Khateeah



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Morning Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 15:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19065430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khateeah/pseuds/Khateeah
Summary: Jon's not sure he'll ever be able to adjust to life beyond the wall - beyond the pressure and pain of being pulled in a thousand directions at once that he'd lived with all his life, now gone like a whirl of ashes floating on the wind.But if there's anyone who can help him find a home in his new life among the free folk, it's Tormund Giantsbane.-"In a heart encased in ice thicker than the Wall itself, Tormund had managed to melt away just enough to carve out a spot for himself deep within Jon’s defenses, and he’d made it seemeasy.Too easy, perhaps, because Tormund was already there, stoking a flame in his heart that had flickered and waned, but had never gone out. Now, in the absence of all else, Tormund fanned those flames into a roaring fire, warming the soul-deep ache in Jon’s bones and breathing him back to life.Tormund was strong. Tormund was safe. And Tormund washis."





	Into The Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for this fandom and WOW am I in love with this ship! 
> 
> A million thanks to [saltsanford](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford%22%22) for beta'ing this for me!
> 
> Enjoy! x

For Jon, every morning of the past three months has felt like waking up in a dream. This morning is no exception. It’s always warm, impossibly so, as the sleepy crackle of glowing orange logs whispers nearby, the finger of a temptress beckoning him back to the waking world. Rest fades into a waking reverie, holding him nearly as close as the plush furs stacked over and around him, and the strong arm draped around his chest.

Even as wakefulness pushes the last lingering dredges of sleep out of his mind, there’s a part of him that doesn’t think he’ll ever be sure that this — _this_ — is really his life now. From bastard to heir to the Iron Throne and back again, and all the horrors lying between, he’d shut down at some point, preventing his mind from ever truly wrapping around the whiplash chain of events dragging him to where he finds himself now: naked, wrapped in the arms of a Wildling warrior, far north of the Wall where he’d been sent to to live out the rest of his life in exile.

No one turned an eye when he left. He’d earned that, he supposes.  But it’s hardly a reward, and certainly not one he deserves.

_Love is the death of duty. And duty is the death of love._

Now, duty doesn’t exist anymore. There’s no one to fight, no one to lead, no one with whom to compromise. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’s becoming a _master_ of compromise in the company of one Tormund Giantsbane.

He sighs, shifting carefully beneath the massive arm hanging over his shoulder and crossed over his chest. He’s being held in almost a bear hug by his lover, even while he sleeps.

A small laugh jumps in his throat. That’s what Tormund is now — a lover.

Tormund shifts behind him with a grunt, and Jon bites his lip.

“Fuck, you’re up early,” the giant of a man murmurs behind him, his voice gruff with sleep against the ruined mess of a ponytail behind Jon’s head. He’s been caught.

An easy smile spreads across Jon’s lips as he rolls his hips back against the silky, hot flesh nestled at the backs of his thighs. He has to admit he’s pleased to find he didn’t have to do much at all this morning to rouse Tormund from his slumber.

“Already, huh?” Tormund grunts, a pleased look etched across the parts of his face visible through the fiery mass he calls hair as his hand swings downward and slaps a fistful of Jon’s ass. Jon hisses, arching back against the contact as the sweet-sharp sting of Tormund’s broad hand reverberates over his skin. The pain of it has him half-hard in an instant, yearning for more of Tormund’s carefully measured touch.

It seemed like half the magic between them, and maybe it was: the fact that Tormund knew from the beginning just how much pain Jon’s body could take in the pursuit of pleasure, and Jon knew how much Tormund could take in turn. It was a simple understanding between them, yet took Jon to heights he never could have fathomed possible between two lovers. Tormund’s a fountain of liquor Jon will never get enough of, an intoxicating presence that’s drawn him in like a magnet from the start. But even then, he’d never imagined they’d end up like this.

Of the women Jon's laid with in his lifetime, none of them came close to touching the way Tormund makes him feel, like he’s surrendered in the safest place in the world while being pushed at the same time, _hard,_ deep into places and pleasures he’d never dared dream of. It’s an addiction, and Tormund’s more than eager to indulge him, wound up like a drum at Jon’s slightest provocation — and Jon’s become a masterful provocateur.

“Gods be fuckin’ damned, Jon…” He melts into the sweet-hot growl behind his ear as Tormund’s growing erection presses between his thighs. Blunt fingertips skim down the curve of his ass and dip between his cheeks, dragging apart the sticky mess between them before rubbing over his puffy, fucked out hole. “I could slide right inside you.”

“Do it, then,” Jon taunts, rolling out from underneath Tormund’s massive arm and onto his stomach, spine arching in a bow, shoving his round, smooth ass in the air.

Tormund’s fully hard when he rolls over top of Jon a split second later, his thick, almost crudely long cock slotted hard into the space between his cheeks. The beast of a man doesn’t waste any time before he’s thrusting up and back, sliding the pronounced ridge under his cock over the swollen, sensitive ring of Jon’s hole.

“F-fuck, please, I need it—” Jon’s pleas snag in his throat when the fat tip of Tormund’s dick catches the edge of his entrance. He’s sore, but he relishes the sensation, the dull pain a delicious reminder of the brutal rough fuck he’d received only hours before. But now Tormund’s all tenderness, gentle as he sinks slowly forward, only to stop when the ridge under the head of his cock slips just past the tight inner rim of Jon’s ass.

“What’s that, pretty crow?” Jon can almost hear the sly grin on Tormund’s face as he purrs against his ear. Jon’s impatient as a hound in heat, and Tormund’s teasing is insufferable. But his eagerness is tempered in the sluggish laze of the morning, and Jon finds himself relaxing, content to be still rather than bucking back to take Tormund deeper like he’d usually do.

“Mm… I need it. Need you,” Jon murmurs through a soft smile as his eyelids fall shut, and he melts into the furs beneath them. And it’s true. He needs Tormund like he’s never needed anything before. Admitting that to himself was difficult at first: it went against the grain of everything he’d ever lived for, fought for, and yet once he’d lowered his hackles, it was just… right.

In a heart encased in ice thicker than the Wall itself, Tormund had managed to melt away just enough to carve out a spot for himself deep within Jon’s defenses, and he’d made it seem _easy._ Too easy, perhaps, because Tormund was already there, stoking a flame in his heart that had flickered and waned, but had never gone out. Now, in the absence of all else, Tormund fanned those flames into a roaring fire, warming the soul-deep ache in Jon’s bones and breathing him back to life.

Tormund was strong. Tormund was safe. And Tormund was _his._

“Good,” comes the rumble behind his head, and then Tormund’s sinking deeper, filling him, claiming Jon’s body for his own as he’d done probably a hundred times by now. Jon shudders with a breathy sigh, his head floating instantly adrift on a cloud of heady, sensual surrender. The noise of stress, of pain, of memory in his head breaks apart as he’s stretched open, stuffed full by the man holding him helpless under a blanket of over 300 pounds of pure, dense muscle.

He’s silent as he braces himself against the first of Tormund’s firm, steady thrusts. It’s almost like a game between them, to see how hard Tormund has to fuck him before Jon’s reduced to a puddle of desperate moans and sharp, stifled cries. But he’s not pushing him now — not yet, anyways. Instead, Tormund’s going slow, almost careful as he sinks in gently until his hips rest flush against the curve of Jon’s ass, pulling out only barely before rocking back in.

Jon feels tears spring behind his eyelids. He doesn’t know why. All he knows is there’s something that feels a fever creeping under his skin, a warmth so deep, so penetrating that it makes him shiver even as he sweats.

He sniffs, blinks away the wetness in his eyes, and Tormund stops behind him.

“F-fuck, I — keep going, please…” Jon whines in a needy whisper. His heart is pounding out of his chest, he _needs_ this, and if Tormund doesn’t move soon—

Jon feels Tormund shrug. “You asked.”

“Shit!” Jon swears as the smack of skin on skin rings sharp in the yellow dawn light glowing inside their tent. Then again, and again as Tormund lifts his hips high and slams them back home.

“That’s what you need, mm?” Still stuffed deep inside him, Tormund peels himself off Jon’s back with a rough chuckle and shoves Jon’s legs apart with his knee. His steel-trap hands lock around Jon’s hips and drag him back, hiking his ass in the air before he starts fucking into him hard with long, rough thrusts.

A sob catches in Jon’s throat as he buries his face between his forearms. He’s tense, holding himself rigid as Tormund bears down on him, his body greedy for each stab of the Wildling’s massive cock up into his belly. He knows Tormund’s right — that he _does_ need this, needs the way being manhandled on another man’s cock forces everything else out of his head, lets him lose himself completely, safe in the arms of the man he trusts more than almost anyone.

“That’s it… you take it so well, little crow,” Tormund purrs, and Jon feels his face flush hot as his body jerks in Tormund’s grasp. Tormund’s praise never fails to do _something_ to him that makes his cock twitch as it bounces, heavy and full between his legs. Jon’s almost ashamed of it, of how all it takes to make him feel like he’s doing something well, something _right_ , are the sweet words of another man ramming his cock up his ass like he’s some harlot in a brothel.

So what if that just turns him on all the more?

He doesn’t care. Doesn’t have to. He knows that to some, he might be seen as just another notch in Tormund’s belt, some sort of trophy, even: the former King in the North, who led the charge that vanquished the Night King, now on his knees for Tormund Giantsbane’s cock.

It doesn’t matter. None of it does. He’s _free._

Tormund pulls out suddenly, and Jon gasps at the rush of cool air that takes the place of his cock.

“On your back. I want to see you.”

Jon complies, rolling onto his back and spreading his legs so his knees frame Tormund’s hips. There’s a softness in Tormund’s expression that reminds him of a spring breeze through wildflowers, and Jon licks his lips.

“Come here, pretty crow…” Tormund says as he hooks one arm under Jon’s knee, taking his cock in the other hand and lining himself up with Jon’s hole. He pushes inside with a soft groan, and Jon’s head sinks back against the furs beneath him, eyes shut and jaw slack as Tormund’s cock stretches him from the inside out.

“Fuck…” Jon sighs on a long, shaky rush of breath. Tormund’s cock feels twice as big when he fucks him this way, and all Jon can do is wrap his legs around his waist and hold on tight while Tormund pounds him so deep he’ll be walking crooked the rest of the day. But Tormund doesn’t move once he’s bottomed out this time. Instead, Jon feels gentle fingertips wiping away the sweaty strands of hair stuck to his forehead, then the soft scratch of Tormund’s beard against his face as his lips press a firm kiss above his brow.

“Look at me.”

Jon opens his eyes. Tormund pulls his hips back, then pushes in, sending a warm liquid shiver up the length of Jon’s spine.

“Tell me what you need, baby crow.”

“You,” Jon’s answer comes out a breathy whisper, and he tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat.

“Me? What do you need from me?”

“Please, anything, I just— _please…”_ Jon‘s babbling now, chest heaving, and Tormund’s hand comes up and presses over his mouth, cutting him short.

“No. I want you to tell me. What do you _need?”_

Tormund lifts his hand away. His eyes glint like two points of glacial blue ice beneath unruly red brows, but there’s a softness there, a silent plea, begging for access.

He knows Tormund’s worried about him.

It’s been that way since he returned to Castle Black, even more so with every meal they’ve since shared in silence, every mirthless laugh that left Jon’s lips as the story of the Queen’s death at King’s Landing spread like wildfire, recounted by his company again and again, each version different than the last. He feels like he’s living in another life, some parallel universe, like everything that’s led him to this point happened to someone else, and yet it’s woven into him, become a part of him, sewn into the very fabric of his soul.

“Tell me this is real,” Jon pleads after a long silence, on a rush of breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“Aye, it’s real,” Tormund answers with a playful smirk, “Sure as my dick’s up your arse.”

Jon feels a smile tug at his lips. His hands find the firm rounds of Tormund’s ass and pull him closer, drawing a shuddering sigh from the man above him as he grinds his hips around the thick mass of flesh lodged deep in his core. If there’s one thing Tormund’s never failed to do, it’s bring a smile to Jon’s face, even in the darkest, most dire of times. Even now, in the heat of a moment where he’s strung up in the middle of a tug-of-war of emotion, of pain and regret, joy and relief whipping inside him like a whirlwind spinning out of control. Tormund’s his anchor, and Jon’s not sure he’ll ever be able to tell him how much he appreciates that.

“Show me.”

“Glad to,” Tormund says through a smile and leans down, catching Jon’s lips in a soft, hungry kiss. Jon’s lips part easily, moaning against Tormund’s tongue as it slips inside and claims his mouth for his own. “I’m gonna make you come with my prick, little crow,” Tormund growls into his mouth as his hips find their rhythm, carefully angled thrusts perfectly placed to hit the spot inside Jon that makes his toes curl as warm bolts of euphoria ripple through his belly with each languid stroke.

“Gods, that’s— that’s… _fuck,_ please… m-more…!” Jon gasps, arms thrown around the broad expanse of scarred, rippling muscle stretched across Tormund’s back and clutching on for dear life.

“Shh, I’ve got you now, crow,” Tormund breathes as he curls his forearm overtop Jon’s head and rocks closer, pumping his hips with a methodical precision that quickly have Jon riding the edge of overwhelmed. His chest is heaving, sweat-beaded brows knit tight as he gladly takes everything Tormund gives him, pushing him closer to coming undone with each snap of his hips.

Tormund’s pace quickens by the second, it seems, and soon Jon can’t stop the string of lewd noises punched out of him by the huge cock shoved deep in his gut. Heavy pants through gritted teeth turn to choked, needy whimpers as Tormund fucks him, shoving him closer and closer to free fall into the abyss. There’s a heavy-hot weight consuming him, of trust and of love, of safety and freedom that coils around him like Tormund’s bearlike embrace, throbbing through his head, his chest and his limbs in time with each of his lover’s thrusts.

“Fuck… _fuck,_ I’m, ah— I’m…! Ah, fuck—!” Jon’s spine bows as he comes with a strangled cry, muffled against the sweat-slicked meat of Tormund’s shoulder. Tormund fucks him through it hard, clutches Jon close while he strokes his hair and whispers soft words of praise that Jon can barely make out as the ripples of his orgasm shiver and twitch deep in his belly.

Then Tormund’s hand finds his cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping away the trail of a tear Jon hadn’t known he’d shed. A hiccup catches in Jon’s throat as Tormund kisses him, soft, almost chaste as his hips roll against him, into him, quick, measured strokes that have Jon squirming and sobbing as Tormund chases his own release. He doesn’t take long to find it. Jon sighs as he’s flooded with the familiar warmth of Tormund’s seed inside him, filling him up and slopping out of his hole and down his crack with the last of Tormund’s thrusts.

“You’re okay, Jon,” Tormund’s words blanket him in sweet, comforting warmth, and Jon comes undone. Soft hitched gasps hiss through his teeth as he buries his face in Tormund’s neck, his body shaking with the silent sobs he can’t stop coursing through his chest.

He’s home.

Finally, truly, _home._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Comments/feedback (and kudos too!) are always wanted and welcome! Ever since Jon & Tormund _literally rode off into the sunset together_ I haven't been able to stop screaming about this ship, and I'd love to hear what you have to say too! x


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